


To Build A Home

by someonelsesheart



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, John Loves Sherlock, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Sherlock - Freeform, Sherlock Loves John, irene adler is wicked and loves to talk in not-quites, mycroft's secret maternal side, sherlock in verse, sherlock is a ninja, sherlock/john, sporadic fluff scenes, they're both idiots, verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-31
Updated: 2012-05-11
Packaged: 2017-11-02 19:29:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/372555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/someonelsesheart/pseuds/someonelsesheart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John still remembers, even if he wishes like hell he didn't. </p>
<p>Sherlock can't let himself forget, even though he knows it would be for the best.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Built of Stone

**Author's Note:**

> I recently finished Chasing Brooklyn, and the verse in it was beautiful - so I figured, why not? This is a work in progress (silly me, when I don't have enough time as it is). 
> 
> I sincerely hope you like it.

**Mon., Jan 2 nd – John **

 

**_This morning,_**

 

I woke up, thinking  
that he would be there,  
and started to call ‘Sherl-’ before

  
I remembered.

 

It’s funny that,  
even after a year,

 

my body,

 

my mind,

 

still remember.

 

I wish they would forget.

 

 

*

 

 

**Mon., Jan 2 nd – Sherlock **

**_Mycroft is being irritating,_ **

  
  
lecturing about

how I should not be following John, because it’s

_too dangerous._

_  
_

For me, he means. For _me._

_  
_

I laughed and said, ‘Mycroft, after all this,  
  
do you really still think my primary thought is  
  
to keep my _self_ safe?  
  


He did this little sneer and says, ‘No, unfortunately,  
  
that duty is my very own.’  
  


He doesn’t understand.  
  


_This_ is all I have.  
  


This is all that’s left.

 

 

*

 

 

**Mon., Jan 2 nd  - John  
  
**

**_When I got to the surgery  
today,_**  
  
 Sarah smiled at me  
and said, ‘Tough morning?’

 

Tough _year,_ Sarah.

Tough

bloody

year.

 

After I leave  
the surgery, I go to the  
  
cafe opposite  
  


 and  
  


stare  
  


into  
  


my  
  


coffee.

 

Sometimes, I think, if I look hard enough,

I can see his reflection in it.

 

His patronizing smirk.

 

His stormy eyes.

 

Stupid idea. Stupid thought.

 

But I think it all the same.  
  
  
  
*

  
  


**Wed, Jan 4 th – Sherlock**

**_Assassins are stupid,  
  
_ **

even for the human race

who are generally dim-witted idiots

as a whole.  
  


Being on the run for a year, I suppose,  
can make an idiot

desperate.

 

“Excuse me, but  
I’m looking for a man.

Sebastian Moran? Have you

heard of him?”

 

The man looks up sharply, eyes

bright with panic, like a

deer cornered by a lion.

 

“I am not  
Moran.”  
  


His voice shakes a little.  
  


Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.  
  


My smile is  
all  
teeth.  
  


“I know _that,  
_ but...”  
  
  


Smirk.  
  
  
  
“You know him?”

 

“No.”  
  
  


He says it too quickly.  
  


 

His eyes scream _stupid mistake,  
  
_

_back,  
  
back,  
  
_

_I take it back._

“I think you do, sir. Another  
  
question for you, then.”

 

The man appears to  
recover the  
mere  
shreds

of his dignity

and cocks an eyebrow.

 

His smile is cocky, but his eyes?  
  
They scream

of

fear.

 

“Of course.”

 

His hand slides to his belt.

 

_Gun._

His toe twitches in its boot.

 

_Nervous movement –_

_knife_

_hidden_

_in  
boot sheath. _

 

“Have you ever heard of  
a man named  
Gregory Lestrade?”

 

His smile drops.

 

He doesn’t even make it to the door, before  
  


he  
  


does,  
  


too.

 

 

**Thurs, Jan 4 th – John **

**_How much_**  
  
  
can the human heart  
take

before it gives up?

 

Does it give up when you  
watch your friend fall to the ground,  
  
fighting for a country that  
would never fall for him?

 

Does it take  
throwing yourself over  
empty London rooftops  
  


for a madman with a

_knack_

for knowing things?

 

Could be a sign when your  
hand shakes  
whenever  
  
you are not throwing yourself  
over those empty London rooftops?  
  
  


Or when your limp is actually  
psychosemantic  
  
and cured by said madman’s  
presence?

  
  


Or does it just take

watching

the madman

the great, great man

  
  


your very, very  
  
  


best  
  
  


friend

  
  


die?  
  
  
  
*

 

**Thurs, Jan 4 th – Sherlock  
  
  
**

**_It’s snowing.  
  
  
_ **

Snow is bothersome, gets in the  
way, tainting crime scenes,  
  


but _  
  
_

John always loved it.  
  


So I go outside,  
  


watch the intricately shaped snowflakes  
  


drop  
  


to the  
  


ground -  
  


and try to imagine John standing

next to me.

 

Mycroft is watching me, I  
know.  
  


I don’t care.

 

The snow worsens, and I  
  
step back into the porch of the  
  
house.

 

My footprints are covered by fresh snow  
  


in seconds.

 

Gone.  
  


As if I was never even there at all.  
  
  
*  
  


**Thurs, Jan 4 th – John  
  
**

**_Lucy Smith has blue eyes,  
  
_ **

and she talks like she’s running for  
election.

 

What’s she trying to win,

is what I want to know.

 

My heart, maybe?  
  


How terribly cliché.

 

_John,  
  
_ Sherlock would say,  
  
 _must you always  
  
choose the  
  
perpetual romantics?_

You aren’t a romantic, and  
  
I chose you, didn’t I?

 

God, I’m talking to a dead madman.  
  


In my _head._  
  


 

 

Still more interesting than blue-eyed Lucy Smith.  
  
  
*  
  
  


**Fri, Jan 5 th – Sherlock  
  
**

**_What sort of name  
  
  
_ **

is _Lucy Smith_?

 

“Apologies. I should not  
  
have informed you of this  
  
recent development.  
  
  


I see that now.”

 

Mycroft has this  
  
constipated look on  
  
his face.

 

It’s rather amusing.

 

“I don’t care,” I tell him.  
“John can do what he wants.”

 

“You can’t be jealous of him, Sherlock.

You’re dead, remember?”

 

Yes. Dead.

 

Of course.  
  


Minor hurdles.

 

*

 

**Sat., Jan 6 th – John  
  
**

****

**_I visited Sherlock’s grave today, and  
  
  
_ **

there were freesias on the gravestone.

 

Not from me. Not from Mrs Hudson.

 

Who would leave Sherlock Holmes flowers?

 

“Call it my thanks to him.

Thanks for saving  
my life.”

 

I spun around, gaping stupidly.  
  


I opened my mouth  
  
  
and then closed it  
  
  
and then opened it -

 

“You’re supposed to be dead.”

 

Irene Adler smiled. “Supposed to be,  
indeed.

But am I?

I should hope not.”

 

The leaves near her  
  
feet rustle as she  
  
moves forward. She doesn’t  
  
 _look  
_

like a mourner.

 

I glare at her.  
  


“You don’t even care  
about him. You never  
did.”

 

I can’t help  
  
but get angry. It’s like  
  
she’s mocking me. It’s like  
  
she knows something I  
  
don’t, but she  
  


doesn’t.

 

That’s impossible.

 

“Oh, I wouldn’t say  
  
that,” she says. “I don’t doubt  
  
I would be a mess  
  
if there was cause to  
  
be one.”

 

I stop. Anger coils around  
my heart, tight and  
unforgiving.  
  


“What are you talking about?”

  
“Don’t play stupid, John.” Irene’s smile  
is sharp. “You know

exactly

what

I’m

talking

about.

  
You don’t  
  _really_ believe

 he’s dead,

do you?”

 

There is no question as to

who _he_ is.

 

And it’s like  
  
a dream, having somebody  
  
  agree with your deepest, most  
  
secret suspicions

and not think you crazy.

 

But really, this whole  
  
situation is  
  
crazy and Sherlock is

_dead, dead, dead._

Irene smiles. “You think Sherlock  
  
Holmes would really just  
  
throw himself off a building  
  
without some

ulterior motive? Without a back-up plan?

 

I spin away from her, shoving my  
hands in my  
pockets.

 

“ _Stop_ it,” I growl at the gravestone,  
  at Irene, or  
Sherlock, or just  
the world

in general.

 

“You’re dead," I tell  
the gravestone.

 

I throw Irene Adler

one

last

glare.

 

“ _He’s_

dead.”

 

I leave the cemetery before she can  
even  
reply, but somehow

it feels like her unspoken  
reply  
  
is as clear as day.

 

_Do you really believe that, John?_

_Do you?_

When I get home,  
  
I sit in an armchair  
  
and stare into the  
  
spitting  
  
fire.

 

For some strange reason,

Sherlock’s room,  
  
untouched,

has an overwhelming presence in  
  
the flat

today.

 

I even go to the door of the  
cold, cold room,

stand outside the door and

wish for the grief to let up.

 

I don’t go inside.

I never do.

 

 

 

 

 

_  
_

**_  
_**

****

****

 


	2. Where I Don't Feel Alone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was meant to be posted four, five, days ago, I swear. But I went on holiday, and apparently my creativity tagged along for the ride, too, and got lost somewhere on the way home.
> 
> Thank you all so much for the feedback - I know this is something a little different (definitely not something I'd usually write) and I'm glad people are enjoying it.

 

 

**Thurs., Jan 12 th – John  
  
  
**

**_A lady came into the surgery today,  
  
  
_ **

her name is Mary Morstan and she has  
a brother with the flu.  
  
  
  
  


She has eyes the colour of  
  
a lovely spring day and hands as  
  
soft as petals.  
  
  
  
  
  


When she looks at me, it’s almost like she  
  
can see the darkness in my soul

 

 

and it scares  
  
  
  
  
me  
  
  
  
  


so  
  
  
  
  


much.

 

  
  


 

*

 

 

 

 

**Thurs., Jan 12 th – Sherlock  
  
  
  
**

**_“Any news?”  
  
  
  
  
_ **

“On Moran?  
  


No. Not a bit.”  
  
  
  
  


Mycroft’s eyes are a little  
wild today.  
  
  
  
  


He doesn’t want to be here,  
in this flat,  
with me.  
  
  
  
  


I scare him, not in the  
way that I do others, in the  
 _freak_ way.  
  
  
  


 

I scare him, because I  
  
remind him  
  


so  
  


much  
  


of  
  


himself.  
  
  
  
  


“Sherlock,” he says,  
  


“You need to get out of the house.”  
  
  
  
  
  


I shake my head at him,  
  
in that way that always makes  
  
John  
  
even more determined  
to get his way.  
  
  
  
  


_John.  
  
  
  
  
  
_

“I’m fine.”  
  
  
  
  


“I didn’t ask,” Mycroft growls,  
“if you were fine.”  
  
  
  
  


He throws me a coat  
  
(a blue, sickening colour),  
  
a hat and a wig.  
  
  
  
  


“Go check on your  
doctor.”  
  
  
  
  


I look at him.  
  
  
  
  


“Go,” he says.  
  
  
  
  


I take the cigarette  
  
I’m smoking  
  
from my lips  
  
and put it out on my shirt arm.  
  
  
  
  


Mycroft looks at me  
and sighs.  
  
  
  


  
“ _Go_.”  
  
  
  


  
I take the coat, the wig,  
  
and the hat, and  
  
l e a v e.  
  
  
  


 

I have to remind myself,  
as I leave the house and automatically  
pull my coat tighter around myself,  
  
that  
  


I  
  


am  
  


not  
  


Sherlock Holmes  
  


anymore.  
  
  
  
  
  


Come to think of it,  
  


I don’t even  
  


know  
  


_who  
  
_

I am  
  


anymore.  
  


 

  
  
  
*

 

 

 

**Fri., Jan 13 th – John  
  
  
**

**_Mary Morstan  
  
  
_ **

comes in again  
the next morning  
  
  
  


and asks me to go grab  
  
  
  
  


c

o

f

f

e

e

  
  
  


with  
  
  
  
her.

 

 “I want,” she whispers,  
“to show you something.”  
  
  
  
  


I go with her.  
  
  
  
  


I don’t know why, but  
  


I do.  
  
  
  
  
  


Something about Mary  
makes my chest want to  
burst open,  
  
  
  
  
  
not even with happiness, but with

understanding.  
  
  
  
  


Like she knows.  
  
  
  
  
  


Like she _gets it.  
  
  
  
  
_

We get coffee, but she murmurs  
 _takeaway_ to the man, and  
before I know it,  
  
  
  
  


we’re at the cemetery.  
  
  
  
  


“What did you want to  
show me?”  
  
  
  
  
  


“Shh,” she whispers.  
  
  
  


She looks like a child  
when she smiles like that,  
and I want to smile  
back.  
  
  
  
  


“Look.”  
  
  
  
  


I look.  
  
  
  
  


A flock of birds  
leave the trees  
as if on cue, spreading their wings and  
soaring high above us,

above  
the darkness of the  
grim earth.

 

 

 

“Isn’t it beautiful?” Mary murmurs.  
  
  
  
  


Her hands wrap around her polystyrene  
cup, and she  
smiles  
gently.  
  
  
  
  


“They can just  
spread their wings and  
fly away. They do it every morning at this time.  
  


I wish I could do that. Just fly away.”  
  
  
  
  


It’s like  
  


she can see right  
  


through me  
  


and it scares me  
  


to death.

 

 

 

 

*

 

 

 

 

**Sat., Jan 14 th – Sherlock **

**  
**

**_The earth revolves around the sun.  
  
  
_ **

I don’t _care.  
  
  
  
_

If I don’t care, shouldn’t this  
useless piece of information  
  
  
  
go away?  
  
  
  


I can’t delete it,  
  
can’t remove it,  
  
can’t forget it –  
  
  
  
  


Just like how I can’t forget John.  
  
  
  
  


Just like how I don’t even wish to.

 

 

 

*

 

 

 

 

**Wed., Jan 18 th – John  
  
  
  
**

**_Mary keeps coming into the surgery,  
  
  
  
_ **

asking me for coffee,  
for help, for just a

  
chat.  
  
  
  
  


The strangest part?  
  
  


 

I don’t even mind.  
  
  


 

Mary Morstan had a husband,  
a helluva man, she laughs, and then

s i g h s.

 

 

 

Killed in a car crash, that took  
her daughter, too.

 

 

 

Mary Morstan has eyes so sad  
I wonder if it’s possible for  
a heart to really truly break,

 

 

 

and never, ever be  
fixed.

 

 

 

 

I think that I’d like  
to fix  
Mary Morstan’s heart.

 

 

 

 

“Six years ago,” she whispers.

 

“Six years, and I’m still  
not over it. Not at all.”

 

 

 

 

But how can I fix Mary’s heart  
  
when I don’t even where to start  
  
with my own?

 

 

 

 

*

 

 

  
  


 

**Wed., Jan 18 th – Sherlock  
  
  
  
**

**_“You should be happy.”  
  
  
  
_ **

Molly is looking at me like  
I have said something horrible,  
  
and I am sure I have but  
  
I really cannot bring myself to care.  
  
  
  


“Why?” I demand,  
  
horrified at the idea.  
  
  
  


“Because John is finally  
moving on. Isn’t that  
  
what you wanted?”  
  
  
  


“No!”  
  
  
  


“He deserves it. He deserves  
  
to be happy.”  
  
  
  


“He deserves _better._ Better  
than her. He deserves somebody who’ll  
  
look after him, put him first.”  
  
  


Mycroft – what’s he even _doing_ here,  
anyway? – scoffs.  
  
  
  
  


“What, you mean like  
 _you_?”  
  
  
  
  


I turn away.

 

 

 

 

*

 

 

 

 

**Thurs., Jan 19 th – John **

  **  
  
  
**

_**When I get home,**_  
  
  
  
  
I sit down heavily  
in the arm chair  
  
and stare at the wall.  
  
  


If you stare at the  
  
patterns on the  
  
dark, bland wallpaper  
  
enough,  
  
they begin to  
swirl before your eyes.  
  
  


Dark. Bland. Patterns.  
  
  


I don’t move away until  
  
a _bang_ emits from the flat  
next door.  
  
  


Oh god,  
  
Mrs Turner’s  
are at it again.  
  
  


I’m about to retreat to my bedroom,  
  
depressed and lethargic,

thinking of throwing myself  
a pity-party,  
  
when something stops me.  
  
  


One thing. One thing that should not even  
mean _anything,  
  
_ anything  
at all.

  
  
  


Except.

 

_Except._

 

  
  
  
  


A torn  
piece of paper. I crouch,  
looking  
closer.  
  
  
  
  
  
  


It’s from one of my books,  
the E.E. Cummings one.  
  
  
  


**_“i love you much (most beautiful darling)  
  
more than anyone on the earth and i_ _  
like you better than everything in the sky.”  
  
  
  
  
  
_**

It’s strange that I  
automatically think  
of him.  
  
  
  
  
  


Which is impossible,  
because _he  
_

is

dead.  
  
  
  


But then,  
  
who put this here?

 

  
  
  
  


And,

 

why?

 

  
  
  
  


Who still  
  
has faith  
  
in me?

 

 

 

 

*

 

 

 

  
  


**Thurs, Jan 19 th – Sherlock **

  **_  
  
  
_**

**_It’s snowing. Again.  
  
  
  
_ **

There’s nothing magical about it this time,  
though -  
  
nothing

whatsoever.  
  
  
  
  


I move over to the window,  
  
throw it open,  
  
and stand there,  
  
staring out at the mass of  
  
grey  
  
slush.  
  
  
  


I stand there until,  
  
a good three hours later,  
  
Mycroft finds me, and  
  
leads me to bed –  
  


where I lie, shivering,  
for the rest of the night.  
  
  
  
  


Even when the window is closed  
and the radiator has been  
  
switched on,

I still feel the shivers wrack through  
my body,  
  
merciless, it seems.  
  
  


I still feel them, right

  
to my

  
bones.  
  


 

 

 

  
*  
  


 

 

 

**Fri, Thurs 20 th – John **

 

 

_**When I get into the surgery,** _

  
  
  
on Friday morning (late, of course,  
the snow has sent London into  
havoc – we should be used to it,  
by now, really),

 

 

Sarah looks at me  
  
like she’s about to tell me  
  
that my most treasured  
  
puppy has died.  
  
  
  
  


I frown.  
  
  
  
  
  


“What is it?” I demand.  
  
“What’s wrong?”

 

 

 

She sighs. “It’s Morstan.”

 

 

 

“What about  
her?”

 

 

 

It’s strange that  
  
I automatically suppose that she means  
  
Mary, and not  
  
her brother -

 

 

 

actually,  
  
come to  
think of it,  
  
not all that  
  
strange, at all.

 

 

 

 

“She’s gone,” Sarah says, and then  
  
before I can get the wrong idea,

 

 

  
“Left for  
  
Plymouth this morning. Said she needed  
  
to get away. Said to  
  
give you this.”

 

 

 

 

 

A note. Barely a note,  
  
really. More like, a poem -  
  


or an elegy.

 

 

 

_You should  
have more faith  
in your feelings.  
  
_

 

 

 

_  
_

_You should  
have more faith  
in yourself._

 

 

 

_  
_

I stare at it,  
feeling my gut

 

twist.

 

 

 

 

“I’m sorry, John.”

 

 

 

 

Sarah really does look sorry,  
too.

 

 

 

 

“It’s okay,” I say.

 

 

Because it is.

 

 

 

Well,

  
it will be.

 

Soon.

 

 

 

I hope.

 

 

 

I stand there for  
  
a few seconds, turning the paper   
  
over in my hands, running my  
  
fingertips along the edges, until  
  
suddenly

 

 

I see it.

 

 

 

 

 

One last inscription. Written  
on the opposite side, in the  
corner, almost as if

 

as an afterthought.

 

 

 

 

_You should  
have more faith  
in Sherlock Holmes. _

 

 

 


	3. Where I Feel At Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has been sitting in my drafts for God-only-knows how long, demanding to be posted (and also complaining about how much it sucked). So I waited. And tried to make it better. And I hope it worked. 
> 
>  
> 
> Now that we've stopped personifying this story, I truly hope you've enjoyed this fic! (fluffy angst and sporadic deep and meaningful moments ahoy)

**Sun., Jan 22 nd – John**

**  
**

**_I’d like to know why._ **

 

**_  
_**

I’d like to be able to sit down, and think,

 

 

  
_Sherlock Holmes is dead because_

 

_  
_

_  
_

_he was sad;_

 

_  
_

_he was lonely;_

 

_  
_

_he just couldn’t take it anymore._

 

_  
_

Except –

 

 

 

That’s not Sherlock.

 

 

 

Sherlock does not  
give up, not  
like that.

 

 

 

 

Sherlock is –

 

 

Sherlock _was_ strong,

stubborn,  
unbreakable.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sherlock was not  
a fraud.

 

 

 

 

Sherlock never lied about  
who he was or

what he did.

 

 

 

 

I would like to be able to sit down, and think,  
without a doubt,

 

 

 

 

_Sherlock Holmes is dead._

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

*

 

 

  
  


 

 

**Sun., Jan 22 nd – Sherlock**

 

 

**  
**

**_There was a knock on the door today._ **

 

**_  
_**

****

I open it, expecting Mycroft,

 

but finding somebody else entirely.

 

 

 

“Hello, Sherlock.”

 

 

 

 

How could I mistake  
that  
voice?

 

 

 

How could I mistake  
the raised eyebrows, the  
smirk?

 

 

 

She finds me wherever  
I run;

 

 

I am the one  
who helps her

run in the

 

first

 

place.

 

 

We are two sides of  
the same coin - except,  
  
not in the way I first  
thought.

 

 

Everything is  
different now.

 

 

 

“What are you doing here?”

 

 

 

 

It comes out harsher  
than intended.

 

 

 

Or maybe it comes out  
exactly as  
I meant it to.

 

 

She looks at me like  
she can see  
right  
through  
it, right through the  
facade.

   
  
  
  
  


“I spoke to John Watson  
the other day.”  
  
  
  
  


 

Irene’s smile  
is so pointed  
I would be a fool not to see  
what she is doing.

   
  
  
  
  


“Leave him alone,” I  
say.

   
  
  
  


 

Irene only  
smirks.

 

 

 

 

 

“What are you doing here?”  
I say again.

 

 

 

 

 

 

And look at her.

Properly.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

She has her hair pulled back,  
like she’s going to a funeral.

 

 

 

Her dress is a dull brown.

 

 

 

 

She looks like somebody who is  
trying to hide.

 

 

 

 

There is a smudge of ink  
on her left hand, right beneath  
the index finger.

 

 

 

From a ticket.

 

 

 

 

A train ticket,  
probably.

 

 

 

 

“You caught the train  
all the way  
 out to here,” I snap, “just to

laugh in my face?

 

 

 

Is that it?”

 

 

 

 

Irene’s smirk  
does not  
fade.

 

 

 

 

“I’m not here to laugh  
at you,  
Sherlock Holmes.”

 

 

 

 

Her hand slides into her pocket,  
pulls out a slip of  
paper.

 

 

 

 

 

_SEBASTIAN MORAN,  
  
  
  
_

it reads, in careful print. And then,

 

an address.

 

 

 

 

 

 

“How did you get this?”  
  
  
  


 

It comes out more sharply  
than I intend.  
  
  
  


 

“I no longer  
owe you  
for saving my life,”

is all she says.

   
  
  
  
  


I take the piece of paper from her.  
  
  
  
  


 

“How did you know where I  
was?” I ask,

 

 

for what seems like the  
  
thousandth time  
  


that evening.

   
  
  
  
  
  


She grins at me,  
blood red lips pulling back over  
white,  
white  
teeth.  
  
  
  
  


 

“Ah, you must know _everything_ , mustn’t you?”  
  
  
  
  


 

She leans forward, leans so  
close that’s she now  
  
whispering in my ear. “I have an –

_arrangement_ with somebody.”  
  
  
  
  
  


 

This doesn’t explain it  
(does it? does it? John would  
know),

 

but I can tell:

   
  
  
  
  


It’s all she’s going to say on the matter.  
  
  
  
  


 

“One last thing then,”  
I say.  
  
  
  
  
  


 

She pauses, her shoulder muscles bracing  
like she’s waiting for the  
blow.  
  
  
  
  
  


 

“Why are you doing this?

You did not have to.

You could have merely -

disappeared.

 

Never shown your face  
here  
again.

 

But you returned for  
this.

 

 

Why?”  
  
  
  
  


 

Irene doesn’t turn around, but I hear her laugh,

sharp and

full of pointed amusement.  
  
  
  
  


 

“Let’s just say...”

   
  
  
  
  


She continues on walking, throwing

the words

over her shoulder

like a parting gift.  
  
  
  
  


 

“I’ve always been a sucker for

a good love story.”  
  
  
  
  


 

And then she’s gone, disappearing into the back seat of  
a sleek black car.

   
  
  
  
  


I don’t even try to stop her  
 to ask  
what _that _is_ _ supposed to mean.  
  
  
  
  


 

Maybe because

I believe

I already know.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

*

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**_Mon, Jan 23 rd – John  
  
  
  
  
_ **

 

**_It was all over the news._ **

 

 

**_  
_**

****

Sebastian Moran. Dead.

   
  
  
  
  


Killed himself in his  
apartment in  
Wales.  
  
  
  
  
  
  


 

Police had been looking for him  
for years.

 

   
  
  
  
  
  


And then:  
  


 

 

“It has been discovered that Moran was  
  
accomplice with James Moriarty, who you may  
  
have heard about  
  
from the death of Sherlock Holmes last year.”

 

 

_Finally,_ is all I can think.  
  


  
  


_Finally.  
  
  
  
_

“The police have decided that Sherlock Holmes  
was not guilty  
for fraud.

   
  
  
  


Mr Holmes was tragically

 

innocent.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

Somehow, I find it within me  
to sit down on the settee.

 

 

 

 

 

_Finally,_ I think

 

 

 

 

_This is good news.  
_

 

 

 

 

_  
_

If it is such good news, then,  
  


why is there a sob  
  


clawing its way  
  
  
up  
  
my  
  
throat?  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


 

 

*

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**_Thursday, 9 th Feb – Sherlock  
  
  
_ **

****

**_After Moran,  
  
  
  
_ **

****

the remaining assassin is easy.

   
  
  
  


Almost too easy.

   
  
  
  


No matter what Adler says,

I will be in debt to her  
now.

 

 

 

 

This is

different.

   
  
  
  


This isn’t a game.  
  
  
  
  
  


This is real  
life.  
  
  
  
  


 

Mycroft comes to my room, finds me  
staring out the window at the

 

layers

of

snow;

 

falling, falling –

 

always falling.

   
  
  
  
  
  


 

He grips my shoulder, a  
rare show  
of affection.

 

 

 

 

 

 

I sneer in  
contempt.

 

 

 

 

 

“Ready to go home,  
brother?” he asks.

 

   
  
  
  
  


I don’t look  
at him.  
  
  
  


 

 

“It will not be easy. John might  
hate me for this.”  
  
  
  
  
  


 

Mycroft smiles. “John Watson  
could never hate you.

 

Physically and verbally abuse you, perhaps.

 

But not hate you.”

 

 

Mycroft never was  
 very good

at comforting people.

   
  
  
  
  
  
  


 

*  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


 

 

 

**_Friday, 10 th Jan – John_ **

 

**_  
_**

****

_**It starts snowing** _

 

 

 

at twelve AM on Friday  
morning.

   
  
  
  


I know this because  
I am awake,  
  


thinking.

  
  
  
 

I had sent a text to  
Lestrade before  
dinner  
that evening.

   
  
  
  


_Want to grab  
a beer tomorrow evening?_

_  
  
  
  
  
_

His answer was quick, almost  
relieved.

   
  
  


_Yes._

_  
  
  
  
  
_

Six months with barely a  
word exchanged.

   
  
  
  
  


Six months is a long time.

   
  
  
  
  


Almost as long as a year.  
  
  
  


 

 

Feels like a decade.  
  
  


 

So I stayed up  
and thought about life,  
and thought about moving on,

 

and the sort of courage that takes.

 

 

 

 

_Courage,_ Sherlock would sneer.

_Courage is unreliable,_

_foolish.  
_

 

 

 

 

 

And then after I finished thinking about  
moving on, I threw on a coat,  
threw open the door  
and threw myself into  
the cold air.  
  
  
  
  


 

His grave is not far, but  
in the dark, it is a  
bit  
like

 

 

grappling

   
  


with  
  


   
  


fate.  
  


 

 

 

 It’s dark and it’s white, almost like a  
white, white blanket  
has fallen over London,

 

tucking it away, safe from the  
  
  
  


rest  
  
  


 

of

 

  
  
 

the

   
  
  
  


world.  
  
  
  


 

I kneel down  
next to the gravestone,  
  
  
  
  


press my hand to the  
cold marble.

 

 

The words fall from  
  
my lips before I can stop them.  
  


 

 

 

They fall, and fall, and  
fall  
  
  
  


 

and they flutter down gently,  
mixing with the snowflakes  
  
  
  
  


and disappearing into the  
blackness.  
  
  
  


 

“Goodbye, Sherlock.”  
  
  
  
  


 

Like the last words he  
ever said to me,

 

but different.

   
  
  


 

Different because I’m not letting him go, like

 

he

  
did

 

me –

 

  
  


 

I’m moving on.

 

   
  
  
  


**_Saturday, 12 th Jan – Sherlock  
  
  
_ **

**_I suppose it is only fair  
_ **

****

that  
  


we come together  
  
the same way  
  
we fell apart.

 

 

 

As strangers.

 

 

  
  


 

 

 

 

 

**_Saturday, 12 th Jan – John_ **

****

 

 

**_There’s somebody walking up our street._ **

****

 

**_  
_**

Just a few paces to my  
right.

 

 

 

 

Just a few breaths  
away.

 

 

 

 

He rushes along,  
wading through the snow,  
his shoulders tense and his

stance wooden.  
  
  
  


 

**_Saturday, 12 th Jan – Sherlock_ **

****

**_“Sir! Sir, you dropped your scarf.”_ **

****

I spin around,  
ready to bark at the  
 _intruder_  
in irritation.

   
  


_John. John is all that  
matters.  
  
_

_  
  
_

The man has his  
hat pulled low over  
his eyes.  
  
  


 

He holds up  
my scarf.  
  
  
  


 

I take it.  
  
  
  


 

“I must have dro –”  
I begin.  
  
  
  


 

But he lets out a yell,  
stopping me short.  
  
  
  


 

And then I get a good look at his  
face.

 

 

 

 

 

 

*

 

 

 

 

 

 

**_Saturday, Jan 12 th – John_ **

**_  
  
_ **

**_His eyes widen.  
  
_ **

****

And then he  
opens  
his  
mouth.

 

“John, I –”  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
*  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


 

**_Saturday, Jan 12 th – Sherlock_ **

 

**_He punches me._ **

**_  
  
_**

****

Of course he  
punches me.  
  
  
  
  


I would expect  
no  
less.  
  
  
  
  


 

I do not expect him, however,  
to grab me by the collar  
and pull me to him.  
  
  
  


 

I do not expect his lips on  
mine, but they are there,  
hot, hot, hot white heat,

pouring from them.  
  
  
  


 

And salt.

Tears.  
  
  
  
  


 

He’s crying.  
  
  
  
  


 

I should console him.

  
  
  
  


I should –  
  
  


 

Oh, fuck it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

*

 

 

 

 

 

 

**_Saturday, Jan 12 th – John_ **

 

 

 

_**He tells me everything,** _

_**  
**_

of

course.

 

I don’t let him  
go until he  
does.

 

By the end of it,  
we are soaked

to the  
bone.

 

“For you, John,” he  
says, his voice rough, and I realise that

 

He’s crying.

 

“It was for you, you  
imbecile.

 

All of it. All of it was  
for you.

 

And I would do it again,  
in a second.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

*

 

 

 

 

 

 

  
**_Saturday, Jan 12 th – Sherlock_ **

 

 

 

And it's not as easy  
as sorry.

 

  
  
  


 

It's not

okay yet.

  
  
  
  


 

Things are not  
suddenly

perfect.

 

 

 

But it's a start.

 

 

 

(Perfection is a ridiculous

notion, anyway.)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

*

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**_Sunday, Feb 13 th – John _ **

**_  
_ **

**_This morning,  
_ **

****

I woke up, thinking  
that he would be there,  
and started to call ‘Sherl—’ before

  
  


he stopped me.  
  
  


 

“Go back to  
sleep,” he grumbles, reaching over  
to  
pull  
me  
  
  
  
closer,  
  


 

and

 

I lean into him,  
  
automatically.

 

 

 

It’s funny that,  
even after a year,  
  


 

my body,  
  
  


 

my mind,  
  
  


 

still remember.  
  
  


 

 

 

I don't think they  
  
will ever  
  
forget.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  
_  
  
_


End file.
